


When it Rains

by Retro Lipstickcat (Lipstickcat)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipstickcat/pseuds/Retro%20Lipstickcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale saves Crowley</p>
            </blockquote>





	When it Rains

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in 2004 - I'm transferring it to this archive unedited.

It really was a sneaky, underhanded thing to do. Looking back on it later, he was surprised that he wasn’t more shocked that They’d do such a thing. But then, it wasn’t as if They hadn’t been responsible for other down right despicable events in history, cowering under the banner of ‘Good’. He had some thinking to do.

They’d been walking in the park, their conversation meandering as always as they cast their influence over the other people around them. Crowley made a dog chase a young woman’s cat up a tree. Aziraphale got a convenient, single, rather buff fireman to rescue it for her. It was more a game than a case of do-good or do-bad. The sun had been shining brightly in the sky when they’d set out and neither of them noticed the cumulating masses of angry grey clouds above them.

Crowley swore at the sudden sting on the back of his hand. He glanced down at the small red welt on his skin and, hissing softly, brought it up to his mouth to suck on as he cast around for the insect with suicidal urges that had caused it.

There was none to be seen. Aziraphale turned to ask what was wrong, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a droplet of water fell onto his friend’s face, just below his left eye. There was a soft sizzle, almost drowned out by Crowley’s own loud hiss of pain and the angel’s eyes widened as a raw patch appeared where the water landed. Jerking back, Crowley searched the sky again for his attacker.

Aziraphale grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards himself.

“Listen. I think I know-” his words were cut off as another drop of water hit Crowley’s face, catching his lower lip this time, causing to demon to swear loudly again.

There was no break this time as the first drop of rain was followed by a second, sizzling against Crowley’s bare arm. Staring at his arm in horror, the realisation finally dawning that he wasn’t being stung by an insect. He glanced up at Aziraphale and his expression was one of absolute terror.

“They’re making it rain holy water,” the angel confirmed the demon’s fears.

Crowley let out a long stream of blasphemous swear words and Aziraphale found himself detachedly noting that he’d never heard such foul language from his companion before. However, there wasn’t time to dwell on such matters, the rain was falling in earnest now; a regular stream of fat drops that fell harmlessly from the heavens, cool against Aziraphale’s face but burning bloody streaks down Crowley’s.

The dark haired demon was desperately looking around them, searching for a place to shelter, but in the middle of the park, there was no where. Even the trees couldn’t provide enough cover, the rain was pounding mercilessly through the leaves so that it sounded like they were surrounded by a marching army. He could feel each drop of water as it hit; it was icy cold for a second, then it sizzled against his flesh like boiling fat and rolled painfully down. He could feel it stripping his skin away, exposing raw meat to the stinging air. It would be a slow way to die, gradually dissolved by a spring shower.

His vision was a world of grey, interspersed by bright electric flashes of red and yellow pain. Suddenly Aziraphale was in that world, filling it. He didn’t resist as the angel roughly grabbed hold of him and pulled him close. His knees buckled and Aziraphale followed him to the damp ground, then hurriedly gathered him up into his arms before his body made full contact with it. Crowley could hear a creaking sound and a coarse ruffling that, whilst quiet, was closer to him than the march of the righteous rain.

Aziraphale crouched down and huddled over Crowley, who was lying in his lap. His wings grew from his back, emerging seamlessly from his clothing and covering them both like a cocoon. He didn’t care if humans saw, there were more important things right now. Crowley clung to him, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and buried his head under the angel’s chin. He trembled, from shock and pain, and from the chill of the air that brushed against his exposed wounds, made even colder by the hell-like heat that had proceeded it. Aziraphale squeezed him tighter, wanting to make it all stop. All he could do for him was shelter him beneath his wings.

After a while, Aziraphale’s legs began to seize up. Stiff, dull cramps began to shoot through his legs. But still he kept his position, listening intently to water splattering against foliage and concrete. He used to love the sound of the rain.

Crowley began to slowly come back to himself. His fingers began to twitch and he absently played with stray feathers that had brushed against Aziraphale’s neck. When Crowley hesitantly raised his head, glittering yellow eyes looked back at Aziraphale, tear tracks falling down his cheeks. His injuries were already beginning to heal, but there were still several angry blisters swelling on his face. He rest his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder and passed out.

When the rain stopped, Aziraphale carried him all the way home and put him to bed in his flat. He stayed and sat on the edge of the bed to make sure he’d recover. He picked up a book and read, although afterwards he couldn’t remember a single word on the page that he’d spent two hours reading over and over. Mostly, he watched the slow healing of the scars on his friend’s face and arms.

That night, Crowley paid homage to the wings that saved him. He stroked every single feather that had caught the holy water and kept it away from him. He massaged the muscular upper wing and made Azirphale purr like a cat. He kissed the point between the angel’s shoulder blades where they grew and licked the first few sensitive centimetres of flesh before the downy feathers began to grow and made his blond companion scream and twist with the newfound pleasure. He rubbed his cheek against the down, soft and fluffy, and then the stronger quills that gave flight, which were like fine, stiff satin. He ran his fingers through the plumage, listened with joy to the familiar soft rustle of them moving and falling back into place.

Then he let Aziraphale do something that neither of them would have done before. But, their views of roles and duty and friendship had shifted irrevocably in the space of an afternoon, and as Aziraphale looked down on him, he brought his wings protectively around them both again, letting feathers brush against both their bodies.

And later, Aziraphale covered them both in feathery sheets and thought about the day and whether he wanted to fight for a side that thought that sudden showers of holy water was fair.


End file.
